


Sleep

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and a moment of sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

"— and then Jimmy and Alfred were quarreling over God knows what, something about who was going to escort Daisy to the pictures, and I had to break that up, and I tell you Mrs. Hughes, I was in such a temper that no one is going to the pictures tonight. Why on earth do I have to train these footmen in the most basic of behaviors?" He rubs his face, opens a door on the breakfront, curses under his breath. "And now there is no stemware in here because Thomas didn't put it back after using it for — for Christ's sake."

Elsie jumps at his bark of exasperation. He is most certainly in a temper tonight, she's never heard him take the Lord's name in vain in such a belligerent manner, nor so many times in a row. Her brow furrows. He's tired, she can see that much, he's strained, the lines in his face cut deeper tonight. She twists her fingers together for a moment, then gets up, goes to him.

He stiffens as she touches his back with a gentle hand. "Mr. Carson, sit down. Let me make us some tea and we'll have a nice cup and relax a while before turning in. Wine might — well, it might make you feel worse." He sighs and though it's almost imperceptible, she could swear that he leans a little against her hand. Her smiles twists a little. Poor man, he works so hard, and so few do anything for him. "Go on, now. Sit down and loosen your tie and close your eyes for a minute while I see to it."

For once, Carson doesn't argue but follows her instructions to the letter. He slumps onto the sofa and pulls irritably at his too-tight tie, frees it, unbuttons the top button of his shirt. He's exhausted, it's true, and tight in his shoulders and back; his head is throbbing and quite frankly he's just tired of them all. He's tired of the squabbling and the complaining and the slacking off; sometimes it feels more like being a father to an unruly brood than butler to a well-trained staff.

Except for her. He's never tired of her.

They argue, certainly, they disagree over how to handle time off, work rotations, behavioral standards. Carson muses on their strange relationship as he watches her quietly move about, watches her capable hands prepare the tea, carefully pour the boiling water, gracefully strain the steaming amber liquid through the mesh. She never tires him, no; if anything she rejuvenates him in some funny way, refreshes him. He need only spend a few minutes in her presence and he's calmed, feels the fuss being smoothed away as she talks of everything, of nothing. Even when she sits companionably beside him at the table in the evenings, when he reads the paper and she is engrossed in one of her many novels, something emanates from her that cools his hot tempers, soothes his overworked mind.

She pours the tea, hands him a cup. Sits next to him on the sofa. "You really should rest more, Mr. Carson. I worry about how hard you work." Elsie carefully stirs her tea with its bit of sugar, he tastes his perfectly prepared cup with lemon and sugar and cream all in a perfect swirl. She never forgets how he likes it.

"I'll be all right, Mrs. Hughes. I shouldn't let them wind me up the way I do; they're barely out of their teenage years, most of them. I should have more discretion." He smiles at her tiredly and - damn it all - he feels his eyelids growing heavy, his body sagging with the need for sleep. Takes another strong swallow of tea to stave it off; he won't waste one of his evenings with her just to go to bed a few minutes earlier. Sits his cup down on the table, pushes it back. His hands are almost tremulous with fatigue.

"Yes, they are children still in a way, I suppose. That's all well and good, but they should still show more respect for you if not for each other. I'm going to give them a good talking to in the morning at breakfast, I'll not have them carrying on like this and adding to your worries."

He is trying to stay awake, trying so hard, but her voice is so pretty and soft and musical that it becomes a long lovely song to his ears, lulls and sings to him, coaxes him toward his overdue dreams and his head comes to rest on her shoulder before she realizes it.

"And if they think I'm a soft touch, they'll see about that tomorrow — I — Mr. Carson, you should —" Carefully, without disturbing him, she pushes her own teacup onto the table. Elsie is unsure of what to do. Lay him down on the sofa, perhaps, remove his shoes, let him sleep here until he wakes and finds his way to his bedroom. But he's a big man, very large, and she doubts she can lay him anywhere without dropping him down into a startled heap. She glances at the door, thinks for a long moment. Worries her lip absently with her teeth. It's late. No one is coming to his door at this hour.

She knows what she would like to do.

Slowly, so slowly, she turns on the sofa, snuggles back into the corner where the arm and the back meet and lets him recline naturally onto her body, into the curves and dips. Lets the heavy weight of his head come to light on the swell of her breasts. Slips her arms around his shoulders. Presses her cheek to the top of his head.

He sleeps on, cradled in her arms, and she is content with that.


End file.
